


A Question's Answer is Proved Fatal

by misscassietaylor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:16:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misscassietaylor/pseuds/misscassietaylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. John gets down to the details on why Sherlock made that hideous jump. However, things don't go as planned afterwards. Hell ensues, and tragedy is inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes had long since succumbed to the peaceful depths of an incognito vapidity. He'd been deceased for over a year now, and it seemed almost inconceivable that a man of his stature could be wiped away so quickly and so easily. However, the world kept spinning, and revolving: not breaking pattern and going by will as it were. The papers had long since receded on posting articles of the suicide in print, and it seemed like everyone in the world had forgotten of the man's mere existence.

Everyone excluding the namely John Watson, who continued to reside at two-twenty-one Baker Street in London. It proved difficult for the ex-military man to grieve and move on with this typical scenario, and he continued on his depressing and dismal way of life in the city. The weight the man had lost involuntarily had shown: his cheeks were hollow and his clothes hung much more loosely around his fragile frame. It seemed like he simply made it day by day without much thought of each second in front of him.

Almost immediately after the funeral of Sherlock Holmes, John had hired a therapist. The death on top of the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from his taxing deployment to Afghanistan had proved him to become severely unstable-as expected. On this very dull and bland day, John was hailing down a taxi to see this very therapist. The ride to the office had been short, and John willed it longer, but to no avail, the car stopped in front of the building within minutes. Before opening the door, he heaved a sigh, and paid the fair-barely enough for a shopping trip left in his wallet for the next two weeks.

"It's been a year," the soft and contentious voice of John's therapist mentioned. Her arms were crossed over a clipboard, and her eyes were trained on John with an almost expectant look.

"There's nothing I can say," John expressed, pressing his face into the palm of his hand, distressed.

"I've heard you tell me otherwise in months past. Please, John. Now is the time. You can't hide everything forever," she reasoned. Her ebony skin shadowed from the dimness of the room, and the dismal grays from outside hadn't helped much for lighting either. Upon previous visits, John requested the lights stay off during their sessions, and the woman agreed very reluctantly.

"I can most certainly try," he said monotonously, his face not breaking his dispirited expression.

The session ended a very long forty-five minutes later. John's therapist was left in more distress and frustration than on John's coming, but she did a very fine job on concealing her crestfallen disappointment and wishing John a swell week.

He stood in the lobby, swaying in one place and staring at one point far away from him. Beyond the faded wallpaper and beyond the trodden and aged carpet. John would do this frequently after sessions: just stay there and stare off. It alarmed the secretary at the desk more than once, but she soon learned to leave the man be, and he would soon be on his way.

It wasn't for another quarter of an hour that John snapped from his trance and realized where he'd been. He pulled the jacket tightly around him and headed out into the cool spring weather. It had begun to rain, and water splashed John's coat in large drops and soon dampening the garment. He decided to walk home, not having enough for a fare, and he braced himself for the five-mile stride.

In the midst of him walking, he felt his right pocket vibrate along with the soft and playful jingle that went along with the notice. John grimaced and fished the phone out, raindrops immediately falling and obscuring the screen from view. John frowned and wiped the water away and read the text that came with.

Seymour and Crawford.  
SH

John stopped in his tracks and the phone went to idle, the screen turning blank. He blinked a few times, and then clicked a button, reading the message over thrice before returning the phone to the safety of his coat. Was this a joke? It had to be. He would oblige to the direction (as they were street names: an intersection just blocks from Baker street) if only to kill the being who sent this to him, and no hopes of Sherlock actually being in the area.

The doctor was fuming as he took long and furious strides down the road in the direction of his home. His hair slowly became sopping, dripping hard from the rain that had slowly began to pick up in speed. He blinked away the rain that splashed in his eyes and brushed away the strands of hair that fell in his face. Within the hour, John could see the street sign of Seymour Place, and he surprised himself on how expeditious he came within the vicinity of his destination. He rounded the corner with dexterity and approached the next intersection, Crawford and Seymour. There was a tall, long stone wall that stretched on his right side. Some of the stones had been weathered, and they were crumbling in places. To John's left, there was a long row of buildings with iron fences out front separating the property from the sidewalk, most likely apartments.

When he reached the corner, John surveyed the area around him, taking in the scent and the depressing feel in the atmosphere. He waited there for a few moments before sighing, clicking his tongue in his cheek, becoming impatient, and stepping back to expect a wall to lean on as he waited. However, John bumped into living, breathing flesh instead of the rough textured wall. He jumped slightly and turned around, an apology ready on his lips. That was until he caught full view of the person he bumped. He was looking back into familiar blue eyes which were slightly obscured by damp strands of hair hanging in their way. John stumbled back a little, narrowing his eyes up at the man. When he nearly fell back, John grabbed hold of the latter's coat and steadied himself.

John stared up at the other man in a near comatose state. This man, he looked very…familiar. His eyes, John has definitely seen those before. The way they narrowed down at John like he was just another boring individual, yet with a sort of affection encased in the light orbs. John's voice caught in his throat, and he was unable to speak. Everything he managed turned into a strangled moan.

"Good day, John," the figure grinned down at the doctor, "Dinner?" He asked, inhaling and straightening his back in a superior light. John's breathing became hefty and labored as he scanned the height of the man before him. Right down to his shined faux leather shoes, it was Sherlo—No! It was someone who was like Sherlock, and they knew him. An acquaintance; most likely from work. It had to be anyone but Sherlock, because Sherlock was dead.

"No," John whispered with all the conjured breath he could gather.

The taller man knitted his eyebrows together and stepped forward, a hand outreached. However, John stumbled back, their eyes meeting and the doctor's eyes were filled with a very desperate fear. It almost seemed like he was about to call out, but all that happened was a slip of the foot and John landed right on his behind, not looking phased by the fall. His eyes stared, frightened, up at the 'Sherlock' who stood before him. "You can't…No..Who are you…Wha.." He was having quite the difficulty forming such a simple statement, his words breaking up and interrupted with rapid breaths.

"John, get up, are you mad?" The latter made to advance on John, but he was already anticipating this. John struggled and kicked to rise to his feet, and his sneakers squeaked against the pavement during his effort to dash away. However, a hand firmly caught John by the coat and pulled the man close.

"John, it's me," the man breathed in John's ear in a whisper. Initially, John struggled against the latter's frame, and pushing against the man's chest. "John." The man said again, and he began to calm down, slowly. The effort put into escaping ceased gradually, and finally, John finalized by wrapping his arms around the man fiercely, and pulling him into a rough hug that lasted no longer than a tenth of a minute. The two relaxed, and pulled away, simply staring into each other's faces. John couldn't, for the life of him, find anything to debunk this man, any way to prove that he wasn't Sherlock, because he couldn't be Sherlock because Sherlock was dead.

John slowly took a few steps back, shaking his head head. Slowly at first, but then quickening into a vigorous tremble. His eyes went from a confused relief to a livid rage. His eyes stared up into Sherlock's, his head still shaking. His hand clenched tightly then not a moment too soon did his fist connect harshly with Sherlock's jaw. The detective's head flew back and his hand flew to gingerly hold his face. He crouched over acutely, his hand still gently caressing his jaw.

Sherlock recovered and quickly after and looked up but John had already started his journey home, having turned on his heel and rounding the corner onto Seymour.

"John, don't," Sherlock groaned between gritted teeth. He opened his mouth and began working the jaw gently, slowly opening and closing it. John hadn't stopped his brisk pace for the man's call, but he did yell a reply over his shoulder.

"You know where to find me, Sherlock Holmes."

It was less than cozy in the familiar flat on Baker Street. The air smelled damp from outside's weather and the rain-soaked coats that hung on the back of the sitting room door. John slumped in the only chair he came to know in the long year he spent alone in the flat with either a bottle in his hand or a clenched fist. Sherlock, however, stood wanton in the shadows of the room, staring across at the doctor. John inhaled deeply then held it for a while-Sherlock counted twenty-seven ticks on the clock in the corner of the room before John released his breath.

"Why," John breathed out finally, the word escaping in a strangled voice. At this time, he held a bottle of whisky in his hand. The seal hadn't been broken yet, however, and it seemed like he was saving it for an occasion.

"I had to. You wouldn't understand, John," Sherlock replied with sharply, raising his arms to cross over his chest.

"Try," John rasped, "Please." His hand balled into a very tight fist, then slamming down on the chair's arm violently.

"John," Sherlock's stature stiffened and he lifted his head to narrow his eyes at the other man. His tone turned firm, almost paternal.

John's finger's curled tighter around the neck of the glass bottle, a soft and clenched squeak created. He heaved a large sigh, shaking his head and closing his eyes. "You just don't understand, Sherlock," John's voice was abnormally calm, yet audibly shaky. "A year. You left me for an entire year." John finished, looking up at the detective with an almost offended incredulity.

"John, please." Sherlock pleaded to his friend for probably the first time. His eyebrows knitted together and his lower lip jutted out just past his upper, a very subtle pout.

"I don't care! I don't want your apologies, Sherlock! I want an explanation!'' John slammed the bottle on the side table with dangerous force. A very long and awkward silence stretched between the two men with the exception of the soft pitter-patter of rain hitting the windows, and John's laborious breathing.

It was Sherlock who took a silent deep breath, speaking again."I had to! There was a reason I did what I did." Sherlock's jaw clenched and he stepped forward defensively, his eyes flashing dangerously. John's hand forgot the glass bottle, and it fell to the floor with a grotesque crash, the contents flowing over the floor as the doctor stood up.

"There was a reason, was there?" John yelled over Sherlock. "Then why don't you explain that to me? I went ages thinking my best friend had killed himself! Gods, Sherlock, if I would have known better, I would have thought you'd jumped because of me! That I was just some obstacle in your life along with all the other 'morons' that you couldn't handle. I could barely come back to the flat if it weren't for Mrs. Hudson!" John continued shouting, his voice rising in a deafening crescendo

"Rubbish," Sherlock spat, "you don't understand John." his voice broke down into a soft murmur, his head lowering a few inches and breaking the heated eye contact with John.

"Then help me out, Sherlock. Help me-" John was abruptly cut off by Sherlock who 's tone sounded very defeated.

"Moriarty," he mumbles.

"I'm sorry?" John asked, leaning his right side forward, and jutting his head out, as if he couldn't hear the man.

"Moriarty!" Sherlock said, his head shooting up and staring John right in the eye. "Moriarty. He had..Men. Men who had guns. On you, Mrs. Hudson. Everyone I cared about. I had no choice." The detective's voice was wanton, and sounded like it belonged to a third party. John stood, nailed to the floor in that one spot just feet from the detective.

"What would have happened if you refused?" John inquired, a skeptical tone dampening his voice.

"They would have..." Sherlock stopped, a fisted hand raising to his mouth and his teeth biting down on his knuckles. He couldn't finish, and there was another very long and terrible silence between the two.p

A shadow of realization fell over John's eyes. "I didn't realize," he admitted, his voice becoming soft and contientious again. Sherlock stayed silent, staring down at the floor, his eyes flicking over to the broken bottle. The scent of strong alcohol brought the mess to his attention again after forgetting about the smashed bottle. After a moment, Sherlock untacked himself from the patterned wall, and picked up his jacket, swiftly shifting the garment around his shoulders and briskly walking out of the flat, leaving John standing right where he was, not even making a move to stop the other man from leaving.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, oops.

The silence that engulfed the room after Sherlock's leave was nearly torturous. The rain was still pattering on the windows, and drops could even be heard hitting the concrete below. John took a shaky breath before easing himself onto the sofa, resting his face in his hands, and rubbing his temple. It wasn't nearly five minutes that Sherlock had left that there was a loud, confident knock on the wooden door to the flat. John rolled his eyes over to the door, letting his hand fall moodily to the arm of the couch he sat on. As John sat up, the slow stride of heavy footfalls filled the corridor, and when he reached the door to the sitting room, Mycroft's heavily shadowed face appeared ascending the stairs. He smiled half-heartedly while he approached John, his pace slowing. John's jaw set when he saw the very unwelcomed and familiar figure.

"Here to take me away again, I see?" John looked up at Mycroft Holms with a twinge of disrespect in his tone. His lips pursed and he stepped back, leaning on the frame of the doorway, unimpressed by the entrance of the other man.

"No need for that, Doctor Watson," Mycroft replied smoothly. He glided around John, letting himself enter the living room of the men's flat. "Please," the man said softly, gesturing to the sofa as if the home were his own. "Do sit." From what John Watson learned from his time with Mycroft, he easily knew the smile the man gave was all for show and all the harm in the world could be brought upon him in a simple five-minute conversation with this man. John made his way obediently, though, not thinking twice about defiance. As he flopped down on the sofa, Mycroft began to pace around the flat. He began to pick up various items including John's old cane that stood forgotten by the fireplace, some books that Sherlock owned, and the infamous skull that John kept around all this time for whatever reason. After a few silent moments, Mycroft inhaled. "I've known for a while now, John." Was all he said, not even turning to face the doctor behind him.

John tilted his head and furrowed his eyebrows gently up at Mycroft. "Known what, exactly?" he asked, his lips pressing into a fine line, and his eyes becoming unfocussed.

Unseen to John, Mycroft's lips raised into a knowing smile: a very dangerous smile for him to be wearing. "Sherlock's…homecoming," Mycroft settled on the last word as an afterthought, almost a humourous and light tone to his voice. At this time, he turned around to face John, the superior expression staying on his face, and making it pronounced simply for his dire need to feel in charge.

"Did you now?" John asked, his voice rising defensively. Mycroft hummed a low tone and began pacing once again. He skirted around the mess of alcohol and glass and slowly glided over to the sofa, staring down at John.

"A year or so, yes. However, that should be the least of your worries, John. I do worry for my little brother. Oh how I do," he said, the last few words fading away, almost as if he were speaking to himself, reminding himself. John's fingertips drummed irritably on the worn leather of the sofa and he looked up at the other man with a certain expectance.

"Is it?" John asked, pressing the issue further. "What else is there to worry about?" John pushed himself to the edge of the sofa, craning his neck to keep his eyes locked on Mycroft's figure.

"James Moriarty," Mycroft answered immediately, letting his eyes fall and meet John's. After a moment, he broke and let his eyes fall closed for a few seconds before inhaling again. "He, of course, has died. However…His men are extremely loyal to him. Yes, are." Mycroft's gaze returned again, more stern and professional. "It will not be long until they find out Sherlock is alive. And when they do find out, it will be a very welcoming sight for neither you nor Sherlock."

John felt himself stop breathing for a few moments before he desperately took a deep breath, closing his eyes and letting himself relax before speaking. "What do you suggest we do?" He asked, tilting his head up at Mycroft who cocked an eyebrow down at John.

"Me? I have no earthly idea what you could do to prevent this. I was informing you in hopes of Sherlock figuring something else out for himself. He can be clever in that way," Mycroft smiled down at himself and turned on his heel, heading towards the door, and stopping at the frame. "It would do him some good to stay that way, I daresay." And he strode out of the flat, his figure blending more and more into the darkness of the hall the further away he stepped. The faint noise of rain pattering grew loud for a moment before dying again, the door clicking closed.

John was alone again with his silence and his thoughts. It seemed odd that Mycroft would visit only John to explain this only to have him relay the same message to his old friend. The mere thought of Sherlock would have made him livid just a quarter hour ago. However, now, it frightened him. The man who started it all; his men were still alive and they were out for blood. What if they already knew of Sherlock's coming, and had already coordinated plans for the murder to finish the job correctly?

It was this that haunted John's mind for the next few hours. Even his strong teas wouldn't keep his mind at ease. He succumbed to cleaning his mess of glass and the liquid, but the carpet seemed to be stained with the smell of strong alcohol. The rain had long then stopped, the damp smell, however, staying strong and pungent in the air.

John almost didn't notice when Sherlock walked in, hair almost damp, and smelling of rain. The detective stared right at John for a fair amount of time before resuming to his own chair he always used to sit in before the fall. He sat with his knees up, leaning harshly into the back of the seat. John nearly jumped when he realized the other man's presence.

"Mycroft came by toda—" John began, but Sherlock promptly cut him off.

"Yes, yes, I saw him walk in." His tone was nonchalant, uncaring.

"Do you know what he told me?" John asked, brushing away the annoyance, having been used to it.

"I don't very much care," Sherlock replied bluntly, keeping his gaze forward. He brought his hands up to his face, rubbing his jaw gingerly. A small, and very faint bruise began to form on that area. It was turning a very ghastly purple and John felt a very small twinge of guilt upon seeing the result of his doing.

"He told me—" Again, Sherlock cut the man off.

"John," he said sharply. His eyes shifted quickly to meet John's and they were icy, just as uncaring as his tone. A quick silence rang through the men before John nodded.

"Fine," he said. "Fine." And he leaned back into the couch, letting his gaze wander out the window. It was quite late, and the night was beginning to catch up to him. John's mouth opened in an involuntary yawn, and his eyes fluttered shut momentarily. "I'm ah..Headed to bed," he announced awkwardly. Sherlock barely gave him any acknowledgement as the other man left the room and headed up to his room.

The instant John's door could be heard clicking shut, Sherlock swiftly turned around in his chair and snatched John's laptop from the table behind him. Of course it was locked, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at the ignorance of the man. _So predictable,_ he thought vaguely. It took him 3 guesses before correctly cracking the password (Bartholomew) of the laptop. Sherlock opened the browser and succumbed into a sleepless night of constant research.


	3. Chapter Three

John awoke the next morning to the sound of…nothing. From what he could hear, the flat was completely silent. This wasn't unusual since the last three-some years; he'd spent entire days by himself, and sometimes not even saying a word. He rolled over on his back and let his eyes wander the ceiling aimlessly. He studied the dull surface for a few moments before something suddenly flashed in his mind. He jumped and rolled over, rummaging through a drawer next to his bed, producing a brown leather-bound book. He let his fingers brush over the cover for a moment before untying the clasp and opening the first page.

_Ella continues to insist that I record everything that happens to me with that bloody blog. I honestly don't know if she's helping me grieve for the war, or for…_

_Anyway, it's been a few months, and I think nothing's changed. Of course the world's changed, people around me have changed, and people say I've changed, but nothing has gotten better._

John flipped a few more pages and skimmed a few more of the entries. He flipped to the middle, a rather large entry he barely remembered writing.

_Sherlock, you can stop this game you're playing. I've never been a fan of hide-and-seek and I sure as hell don't enjoy it now. I'm done looking for you and I've given up. Mycroft was right, you know. He told me—he knew me-he said I've missed the war, and I suppose that's partially true. Well,..really, it is true. But Sherlock, that war I was fighting after Afghanistan, that was with you. Now I'm alone, and this isn't a war I want to fight, not like this._

John sighed and stopped reading the entry, and stared at the page, running his calloused fingertips across the paper. He then flipped to the last entry he wrote in the journal, skipping quite a few pages. He remembered this entry very clearly and it brought tears to the brims of his eyes as he remembered the contents.

_This ends here, Sherlock. This ends right now and I will make it end. I'm sick of this, all of this. During this time apart, I've come to realize something about myself. Something that I'm not sure if I like or if I hate. It's all so confusing. Is it just me grieving or is all of this real? I've lost the feeling of real so long ago, maybe during the war days, but I don't remember. You brought that back briefly, but then quickly and selfishly revoked it away from me far too soon. There's something I've wanted you to know, something I've shared with Ella many many months after your death and I thought about telling you to your grave, but how silly is that? Extremely. You'd laugh at me, you know. The things I've told that stupid stone in the ground. It's my only anchor to you, and I feel so..content._

John quickly snapped the book closed before reading the rest and shoved it away from him. He kicked it off the bed and it skidded across to the side table he had retrieved it from. He stared at the faded leather blankly before throwing his sheets off him and striding over to the door, and bounding down the stairs. Sherlock was already awake (as expected) on his laptop, staring at it intently. John stared at the latter for a few moments before proceeding on to the kitchen. A very long minute of silence stayed through them as John prepared his morning tea.

"Sherlock?" John called out after a minute. He heard Sherlock grunt a reply. "What's going on, do you know?" Sherlock's eyes flicked to the kitchen before returning to the screen.

"What do you mean," he said monotonously in return. At the counter, John scoffed as he dipped the teabag into the hot water, watching the liquid flow a light brown.

"You were dead just last week, and now you're here," John noted, keeping his eyes on his tea, eager to drink it. "And now you're going about as if you weren't dead for over a year."

"Your point?" Sherlock rolled his eyes up and stared at the empty doorway for a few moments, sitting still in his chair. John leaned back and met Sherlock's eyes, his own filled with disbelief.

"We're just going to ignore it?

" "There's nothing I have to say. I had my reasons and that's all there is."

John pursed his lips tightly and went back to his tea after a hesitant moment. He dunked the teabag numerous times before throwing it in the trash and adding his milk and sugar. He stirred quietly and stared down at the lightly colored liquid for a couple moments before holding the mug close and walking to the sofa to sip his drink. Before he could sit down, there was a small noise from Sherlock and he turned around to look at the other man.

"John," he began, then paused. "If you could..." he gestured to the mug in John's hands. John turned to fully face the other man and he scoffed, looking up and out the window for a moment before setting his mug down and returning to the kitchen, preparing tea for Sherlock. He returned after a few minutes and set the mug next to Sherlock on the table. "Thank you," the detective muttered shyly, reaching for the hot drink and taking a very tentative sip. He nodded calmly and then set the mug down on the table where John had previously placed it.

"I know why you did it and all. I do understand, Sherlock." John said finally, sipping his tea again and keeping his eyes fixed on the carpet near Sherlock's feet.

"Good," Sherlock mused before closing the laptop and setting it on John's chair opposite him. "And John?"

"Yes?" John's eyes lifted slowly, meeting Sherlock's face with a reluctant manner.

"I hope you know," Sherlock paused a moment, then went on, "that I am sorry for this."

"I.." John stammered a bit before collecting his breath, smiling vaguely. "Thank you," he said at last with a nod. Sherlock didn't reply and he simply wrapped his hands around the warm mug and brought it to his lips, sipping the drink gratefully. The men sat in a long and comfortable silence for the next few minutes. John looked down to see the ceramic bottom of his mug; he grimaced and then stood, striding over to the kitchen.

Sherlock was up in a flash, intercepting the other man from the kitchen. "No, really, John." Sherlock said in his low voice, barely above a whisper. His hand reached down and caught John's wrist in a gentle hold and John looked up to meet the other man's eyes. Their eyes locked for several moments before either of them knew that the distance between them were closing, and Sherlock's hard expression stayed firm, but slowly became out of focus as John's eyes crossed for a last struggle to keep his own locked on Sherlock's. A small noise rose out from John's throat, and he tilted his head up, the two men's lips meeting in a very shy and soft brushing of the lips. Sherlock kept his eyes open a sliver, watching John's eyelids flutter closed after a reluctant second. The kiss broke a moment later with a soft smack noise and John's face flushed pink. The latter smiled only vaguely before turning on his heel and walking toward the window opposite the kitchen, his back turned to John. John's feel seemed nailed to the floor, unable to move from the spot he stood.

John peeled his feet from the floor beneath him and proceeded onto the kitchen to set his mug in the sink with a bit of a slower pace. John's mind was running at tremendous speeds, wheeling with emotions, thoughts and reasons. He nearly fell over, the thoughts making him dizzy, and he clutched onto the island counter to steady himself. He felt his heartbeat slow after the adrenaline simmered away, his face heating up in the process. From his spot in the kitchen, John could see the other man pick up his beloved instrument and stare at it for a while before tucking it under his chin and running the bow over the tuned strings. John inhaled almost silently and made his way into the living room, each footfall making a deep thud in the carpeted floor. He walked close to Sherlock, his hand reaching up and pressing his fingers across the neck of the violin, dulling the sound. Sherlock stopped the glide of the bow and his head jerked slightly to look at John out the corner of his eye. Silently, John took the instrument from Sherlock's hands, setting both pieces down on the desk next to him gingerly. One of John's hands pressed on Sherlock's shoulder, turning him to face John. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat at John's touch and he complied humbly and stared down at John with his back straightened. He felt John's hand brush across the back of his neck, then pressure, and his head being brought down, and he then felt John's lips push firmly against his own. His own eyes squeezed shut and he furrowed his eyebrows subtly before reluctantly kissing the other man back. John took this as an invitation, and he pressed himself against Sherlock, his other hand clamping onto Sherlock's hip, bringing their bodies together closely. It was Sherlock who broke the kiss this time, letting his eyes flash open and stare down at John with a half-longing, half-disoriented expression.

"John," Sherlock whispered, his lips brushing softly against John's as he spoke. The latter pushed himself up and pressed his lips against Sherlock's once again before backing up a few inches.

"Stay here," John replied vaguely, turning around and briskly walking from the room and bounding up to his room. He stayed gone for only a moment before he returned holding a leather-bound book tied at the side with a strand of leather. John set it in Sherlock's hands silently, opening the book while the book rested in the taller man's hands and flipped to a page with an entry he—in fact—had read earlier that day. Sherlock stared at the page for a moment before sitting in his chair, crossing his leg and resting the journal against his thigh to read the entry.

_This ends here, Sherlock. This ends right now and I will make it end. I'm sick of this, all of this. During this time apart, I've come to realize something about myself. Something that I'm not sure if I like or if I hate. It's all so confusing. Is it just me grieving or is all of this real? I've lost the feeling of real so long ago, maybe during the war days, but I don't remember. You brought that back briefly, but then quickly and selfishly revoked it away from me far too soon. There's something I've wanted you to know, something I've shared with Ella many many months after your death and I thought about telling you to your grave, but how silly is that? Extremely. You'd laugh at me, you know. The things I've told that stupid stone in the ground. It's my only anchor to you, and I feel so..content._

_Ella tells me I'm just confusing my grief for something else, but I think she's wrong._

_Those times that I've felt so exhilarated with you while we solved crimes and figured out riddles together, and the creeping sensation I'd feel when you'd state something brilliant as if it were common fact, I think I'd mistaken that for something else. It was love. Every jolt, every pinprick of excitement that seared through my veins. That might have been adrenaline but it was also enchantment ._

_Stop rolling your eyes at me._

_I guess that's all I really can say about this without repeating myself. I just wish you could come back so I can finally tell you, though you probably already knew before I even did._

_God, I miss you._

The entry ended there with John's shaky signature. Sherlock raised his head and pressed his fingertips together, letting his chin rest on them silently.

"You were right," he said after a silent moment. John raised his head and furrowed his eyebrows, looking over at the detective.

"What was that?" John asked softly, tilting his head. Sherlock's head whipped over and looked at John intently.

"You were right," he repeated, "I knew far before you did. During my disappearance, but yes, I knew." Sherlock's hands fell and gingerly held the journal in his hands, running his hand over the cover, then tying the leather strap together to close it more securely. John's heart caught in his chest and it felt as if he were falling from a high point, a buzzing pulsing down his spine.

John shuffled over to Sherlock and stood in front of him. He raised his knee and crawled into Sherlock's lap, pushing the journal off and pressing his knees on either side of Sherlock. "Why did you come back, Sherlock?" John's hand lifted and brushed away a dark curl from Sherlock's forehead, then cupping Sherlock's face with his hand. Sherlock's eyes flicked down for a split second before meeting John's once again.

It was barely a whisper, but John heard it and it was lost just as quickly. The two men's lips crashed together in a deep and passionate kiss once the words left the detective's lips. Teeth grind together and tongues tangled in each other's mouths, the kiss becoming hot and heavy. The night, beyond then, became lost in their lustful holds.

_"You, John."_


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Be warned. Feels ahead. Much love.

John rolled over, a loud ringing of a phone rousing him from his slumber. He only recognized the noise as Sherlock's alert sound and groaned, reaching his arm up and stretching. The sheets around him were warm and the body next to his warmer. He turned his head and looked at the other man next to him and a small simple smile rounded his lips. John shifted closer to Sherlock and wrapped his arm over the sleeping man and pulled him close.

"Phone, John?" John heard the mumbles from the pillow, and he lifted his head.

"Sorry?"

"My phone," Sherlock repeated, drawing his hand out from under himself, holding it out waiting. John stared from Sherlock's hand to the man's ruffled mass of hair, then back to his hand. He scowled and rolled out of the bed, padding over to the coat that had been tossed over the back of a chair. John dug out the phone, not caring to look at the display and he tossed the gadget over at the lump that vaguely made out Sherlock. John was almost back to the warmth and comfort of the bedsheets when Sherlock jumped up and out of the bed, rushing about, gathering his clothing and redressing himself hurridly.

"Sherlock?" John stopped with one knee up on the matress, tilting his head and looking up at Sherlock with furrowed eyebrows. Sherlock was silent as a response and simply continued dressing himself to decency. "Sherlock!" John raised his voice, letting his one elevated knee fall and his foot hit the floor with a low thud.

"He's here!" Sherlock finally shouted at John out of exasperation, tossing his phone to the bed. John picked up the phone and read the message displayed on the screen.

_Your secret's out, Sherlock. Come out, come out wherever you are._

John stared down at the message blankly.  _What the hell does_ this _mean?!_  He thought, irked. "Sherlock, I-"

"He's here!" Sherlock interrupted, draping his coat across his shoulders.

"Who!" John said back, tossing the phone back onto the bed, and shuffling over to his clothes that lay in a heap at the foot of the bed.

"Sebastian Moran."

 

 

Sherlock wisked through the door to the lab in St Barthelomew's Hospital with John struggling to keep up with his quick pace. The detective's face was pressed in a determined expression, eyes narrowed and features concret; a very liable comparison to John's both frustrated and lost facade.

"Again, why are we here at Bart's?" John asked, gesturing his hands outward towards the room as a whole. Sherlock didn't reply as he slipped on latex gloves over his thin hands: something he wasn't partial for doing, but this experiement called for extra precautions. He sat in front of the familiar microscope had become acquainted with and fiddled with the knob on the side a few times before reaching down into his pocket and withdrawing a seemingly empty plastic bag.

"What's that?" John commented, immediately attatching himself to Sherlock's side. The latter's eyes shifted toward John, but then flicked back to his work. He again stayed silent as he placed some dirt that laid in the corners of the bag on a slide, then slid the glass under the microscope. He leaned into the machine, his face stony. Sherlock suddenly jumped and turned to his partner.

"John, could you go to the rooftop and get me a sample?" he asked simply.

"A  _sample_? Of  _what_?" John questioned, repositioning himself to get a better look at Sherlock's face.

"Dirt, gravel, whatever," Sherlock waved his hand vaguely and then resumed his observations at the microscope.

John returned about a quarter of an hour later holding a small fistfull of whatever he could find in the crevices of the rooftop. He placed them over a sheet of paper at Sherlock's elbow. With so much as a grunt of a thank you from Sherlock, the genius grasped a pinch of the sample between his fingers and prepared another slide.

"Would you get the tubes from the cabinet as well, John?" Sherlock's eyes flicked towards John, hoping the doctor would obey without argument or demands that he knows exactly why they're here at this place. There was a moment of silence that stretched between the two and Sherlock almost looked up, but he heard John's stature shift as he retrieved what he asked. The glass tubes were placed by Sherlock's elbow followed by a discontent sigh from John which Sherlock ignored.

"He hasn't traveled much," Sherlock voiced after a few moment.

"Hm?" John looked up from the floor.

"Moriarty. That means that Moran is either here in London or Moriarty has called him for details and such, but he doesn't seem like the man to handle such a huge ordeal over a simple phone call. Effort was involved." Sherlock reasoned aloud, cleaning up the area halfheartedly.

"The number he texted you from was from London." John pointed out.

"Of  _course_  it was, John. He'd have gotten a new number since being involved with Moriarty." Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. John pursed his lips and bobbed his head down to look at the tiled floor again.

The next thing that caused John to look up again was an ominous creak of the door to the lab. Sherlock had stopped what he was doing and looked in that direction as well, alert. In stepped a tall man (a bit taller than John) in a rather exquisite suite of a smoke grey with a white undershirt, topping it off with a light colored tie. His hair was shortly clipped, dark and styled.

"Sort of funny that we would begin here just to end here, don't you think, Sherlock?" the man said, stepping in the room in slow, short strides, his hands at his sides in loose fists. He stopped his stride feet away from Sherlock and John, letting his hands fall back against his lower back, in an off-parade rest.

"Moran," Sherlock breathed, his head perking up and his back straightening defensively.

"I understood Moriarty said you were to  _fall_  but you  _know_  he didn't want your clever excuse for a suicide." Sebastian voiced, his tone echoing on the walls of the lab ever so. Sherlock stayed silent, and as did John, who fidgeted in his spot uncomfortably. "Sherlock, you and I both know that you cheated your way out of death. You were never meant to survive."

"Moriarty did." Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth, not bothering to indulge in an explanation on his reasoning. Sebastian simply chuckled lightly, his hands falling back to his sides and his legs working in a comfortable stride about the room, his distance never closing in on Sherlock.

"You  _know_  why I'm here," Sebastian said, the smirk settling on his face with familiarity.

"To finish the job, of course."

Sebastian reached into the coat of his suit and withdrew a handgun, aiming it on Sherlock's face, cocking it. John knew that if he were to move and interfere now, they would both get hurt and be under care (or lackthereof) of this..psycho. "With ease," he said with a smile.

"Shouldn't I have rights to 'last words'?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head vaguely, squinting his eyes.

"Mmm..." Sebastian hummed, looking to the ceiling with pursed lips. "Nah," he said before pulling the trigger.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, practically jumping on the detective, and pulling them both to the floor. "Alright, Sherlock?" he asked, breath heavy. There was a sickening lack of reply from the other man, and John's eyes flashed, fear replacing the brief relief he had. "Sherlock?" his voice broke a bit while he rolled off Sherlock, revealing a pool of blood under the body.  _This is real. This is happening._  John let out a small, pathetic noise and rolled Sherlock over on his back, looking at the wound. It had pierced his heart, and the unnaturally pale skin had now become literally as white as a bedsheet.  _Again, this is happening again._  John frantically ripped at Sherlock's shirt, opening the wound up to John's eyes. The bloodflow from the wound was slowing down, and quick. His fingers went to Sherlock's neck and... _Nothing._  John let out a single sob before falling over Sherlock's lifeless corpse, the sound of Sebastian Moran's footfalls becoming further and further away. Revenge was not on John's mind, and it would probably never be. The only motivation he had ever had for anything anymore—it seemed—lay dead in front of him.

 

 

_I, John Watson..._

John stood at the edge, wind whistling through his ears, and running his hair askew. He stared down at his fate, the sound of waves splashing up at the rocks distant, yet so close.

_..do swear that I will be faithful..._

He took a deep breath, the smell of salt filling his lungs. A small smile of relief flashed on his lips, followed by a sorrowful frown.

_...and bear true allegiance..._

John glanced up at the sky, squinting against the harsh, afternoon sun.

_...to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth..._

He laughed at a faraway memory, his whole life finally being recalled to the forefront of his mind. He remembered being young and staying with his mother and father. He remembered the good days, and he remembered the disappointing days. Neither had a certain effect on him right now.

_...her heirs and successors, according to law..._

John's eyes looked down at the rocks and the restless water once more before inhaling deeply and letting himself fall foreward. There was no 'clever escape' from this. There was no coming back after three years like Sherlock had. Sherlock was gone now, and there would forever be that void. John had survived the three years without him, but part of him had always known he would come back. But now, things were different. He had held Sherlock's drained body in his arms, watched him die. He'd watched plenty of men die in war, but this was personal. It was a part of his life. The wind flapped through his clothing, the gravity claiming him closer and closer to the sea. He splashed loudly, the air leaving his lungs by John's own accord. He stayed there, ill of adequate oxygen for a few moments before he began to cough, the salty water entering his lungs and screaming at him.  _Stop!_ , it yelled. John ignored the pleas and let the sea claim his lungs, eventually becoming light headed, and everything turning black.

... _So help me God._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading you guys! Reviews are welcome! Anything to become better. If you're wondering, the thing at the end is the UK Oath of Allegiance for the Army and whatnot. Figured it was appropriate, considering that's what sort of created the part of John we are all familiar with and the part that Sherlock fell in love with. Thanks again.


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